He stepped closer, examiningthe painting directly in front of him. "These are really quite well done.Zabrie showed me some paintings in a book, but they were all concerned morewith inciting than depicting emotion. Notice the tender expression on the man'sface?" He raised the lantern nearer to the painting. "And the textureof the woman's buttocks looks as smooth and plump as peach halves. Thisposition is fairly pleasurable if the angle is done right... "
She found she wasn't lookingat the painting but at the play of light on the finely molded line of hischeekbones. Though they weren't touching, she could feel the heat of his bodyand was acutely aware of the earthy fragrance of salt, soap, and sweatsurrounding him. She was finding it hard to breathe. The intimacy of the carseemed to be smothering her, weakening her. "Shall we go now?"
He glanced curiously at her."Are you blushing? I wouldn't think a woman who frequents Zabrie's wouldfind anything shocking in these paintings."
"I'mnotblushing."She knew the heat in her cheeks belied the words and deliberately made her tonebrusque. "I don't find them shocking, merely unbelievable. Men don't...There's no gentleness. It's not like that picture."
His gaze narrowed on her face."No? What is it like?"
"Hard and fast," shesaid baldly.
He chuckled. "I can'tdeny it's hard. You should—"
"I don't want to talkabout it."
"Why not? I'm finding thediscussion fascinating. Tell me more,"
"You're making fun ofme."
"Perhaps. Your experiencemust be somewhat limited."
"You're wrong," shesaid fiercely. "I spent the first twelve years of my life in a whorehouse.I know all about—" She stopped abruptly. Then she turned on her heel andstrode toward the door. "I've had enough of this nonsense."
"A whorehouse?" Thestrange thickness in his voice caused her to glance at him over her shoulder.All humor had disappeared from his expression and he was tensed, arched like acat about to spring. "Is that where Reilly found you?"
"Yes."
"It seems I misjudgedhim. I wouldn't have guessed his tastes run to children. I'm beginning to findthe sot not quite so tolerable."
"It wasn't like that— Ihave to get back to the bungalow."
"That's right, youmustn't be late." Stinging ferocity underlay the silken tone, and hislight eyes glittered through half-closed lids. "I'm sure your Patrick isdesolate if you keep him waiting for even a moment."
"Be quiet!" Herhands clenched into fists. "Patrick may not always be sober, but hedoesn't mock or try to hurt people. He's not cruel like you are." Sheturned and threw open the door.
"Jane!" He muttereda curse and was suddenly beside her, his hand grasping her arm.
She tried to pry his fingersfrom her arm."Damnyou, let me go."
He immediately released herand held up his hands. "See, I'm not touching you. Now may I saysomething?"
She glared at him.
"I admit I did try tohurt you. I felt the flick of the whip and instinctively struck back."
"I wasn't striking out atyou. I don't even know what you're talking about."
"I'm trying toapologize." He grimaced. "And obviously doing it very badly. Isuppose that's to be expected since I can't remember the last time I so humbledmyself. God knows, we all have to do what we must to survive. I had no right tojudge you. Will you forgive me?"
She felt her anger ebbing away."You're a strange man."
"Without doubt." Hetook a step back and gestured for her to precede him. "Go on. I'm feelinga little savage at the moment and it would be better if you weren't around me.I'll see you in the morning."
"Is there any point in suggestingonce again that you give up on laying track for the railroad?" she askedhaltingly.
"None." He didn'tlook at her as he moved past her and down the steps to the platform. "It'stoo late for that. We have to get on with it and finish it."
"On with what?"
